


i whip my hair back and forth

by yawnbot



Category: Sally Face (Video Games)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Fluff, Headbanging, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Scars, also ambien is mentioned, but it's ok, it's that scene. you know the one. the mask scene., or at least implied scars, sal has a panic attack, sal's internal monologue is kind of gay, they mention pot offhandedly, tostito's: hint of gay, you could probably read it as not gay if you want
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-10-27 13:44:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20761322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yawnbot/pseuds/yawnbot
Summary: Sal matches the beat, whipping his pig-tails around as hard as he can, and maybe doing a few air-guitar poses when the mood strikes. He can feel himself grinning, the air rushing through the holes in his mask as he lets go and jams out as hard as he possibly can.And that’s when he hears the rest of his mask unclip.





	i whip my hair back and forth

It’s a Tuesday in the middle of summer, a swelteringly hot day even from deep within the concrete confines of a basement bedroom.

And Sal Fisher is being eaten alive.

He’s being entirely consumed; swallowed whole by the polyester maw of Larry’s carrot-colored bean bag chair. Sal worries that any sudden movements might have him sucked whole into the ocean of polystyrene beads, so he doesn't struggle. He just has to accept his fate, resigned to the void of cheap fabric and surrounded by the smell of nacho cheese and pot for the rest of eternity. His skinny white knees are parallel to his face, his entire body folded in half like he’s a goddamn beach chair. Every time he sits in this damn thing he regrets it, he doesn’t know why he continues to bother. It just looks so scruffy and inviting from a distance. 

Larry reenters the room, snacks in hand. Sal tries to scrunch up further on himself, but he can’t manage to hide enough to avoid the eye contact Larry immediately throws at him. The snacks are dropped, the crinkle of chip bags and the clunk of soda cans (which they’re now going to have to wait to open, unless they want a pop shower, ugh) accompanying Larry’s breathless chuckle.

“You look like you’re going to disappear inside of that chair,” Larry says cheerfully, and Sal groans. He rolls to the side, prying his torso from the cavernous plush seat and flipping like a hamburger face-down onto the ground. Mask against floor is an arguably even more uncomfortable position, the prosthetic pushing awkwardly against his skin and Larry’s stained carpet far closer to his face than he would have ever desired. He turns his head to the side, relieving himself from some of the pressure (and odor). His eyes focus in on the bright red bag of Doritos in front of him. Yum. Good choice, Larry. 

“I don’t understand why you still have it. It seems like a death trap,” Sal mutters, half-unclipping the back of his mask. It takes him a moment, the weird position messing with his usually skillful unclasping. After the top buckle is sufficiently loosened for imminent food delivery, he snakes his hand toward the tantalizing snack. With a hum, Larry kneels down, snatching the bag just before Sal can close his fingers around it.

“I hide my weed in there. Shove it right in with the beans. Obviously,” Larry says. He tears the shiny material of the chip bag open with ease, and snatches a Dorito out of it. Sal does his best to glare daggers at him in response, but his glares rarely register when he wants them to. “So what d’ya wanna do today, man?” Larry reclines on the ground beside Sal, chip in hand, head against the wall. He has a content smile on his face - which is either the byproduct of making fun of Sal or being stoned off of his ass. Probably both. 

He’s close, and it’s distracting.

“Doesn’t matter.” Sal gives up on his snack dreams, and decides that maybe the ground isn’t so bad after all. For a hideous and disgusting green carpet, it is quite comfortable. “Probably this.” 

“Yeah, this ain’t so bad.” The bag of Doritos is placed down besides Sal’s head again. He doesn’t even want them anymore.

“Maybe listen to some music?” Sal rolls his shoulders, popping his back. Yeah, music would be nice. He’s definitely not just suggesting it to watch Larry get excited. Certainly not.

“Sal, you’re a genius!” Larry says excitedly. Sal concedes that perhaps he suggested it because he wanted to watch Larry get excited. It was worth it.

Larry grabs Sal by the hand, yanking him effortlessly up from the floor, and Sal lets him, his fingers burning in Larry’s grip. Sal stands and watches as Larry goes about setting up his stereo, following the lackadaisical process with semi-interest. It’s an unspoken rule that they listen to the first song of a disc standing, to really  _ enjoy _ the music, or something. Truthfully, the both of them just think headbanging is fun, and want an excuse to get it out of their system. But it’s cooler if they don’t say it like that. The whole thing is like a ritual at this point. Sal can dig it.

The room is quiet, save for the buzzing of the fluorescent lights overhead and the shuffling of Larry’s fancy spinning CD rack (a Christmas gift) as he searches for whatever album he’s looking for. Larry runs a finger down the stack, his lips moving minutely as he reads each album cover to himself. He stops for a minute to shoot Sal a wide, crooked grin.

Maybe Sal’s heart stops for a moment.

“Sanity’s Fall?” Larry asks, voice hopeful.

“Duh,” Sal murmurs, gaze locked on Larry.

“Rad. Super rad.” He continues to browse the spines. When he finds what he’s looking for, he pinches the hard plastic between his thumb and forefinger and gingerly removes it from the rack. He picked his favorite CD, and Sal isn’t surprised. It’s the one he almost always chooses first. Thankfully, it fucking rocks, so Sal doesn’t mind. “You wanna do the honors?” 

“You’re trusting me with such a high stakes job, Johnson?” Sal replies, voice mimicking some sort of vague cross between a secret agent and a high school football coach. Larry laughs.

“I think you’re ready, grasshopper.” He bows, and then bops Sal on the head with the album. “Take it away.”

With a quiet snicker, Sal grabs it, and pops open the plastic clamshell housing with a satisfying click. He removes the disk with great care, not allowing his fingerprints to touch any of the holographic surface. In his imagination, he’s an art thief, trying not to ruin the fucking Mona Lisa before he can sell it off. Caution and ease are the name of the game with such a priceless artifact. Larry pops open the CD tray of his stereo with a dramatic flourish, and Sal completes the drop off swiftly. They push the tray back in at the same time.

There’s a moment of mechanical whirring as the lasers become acquainted with the surface of the album and 

Hell yeah, this song fucking rocks.

The volume is turned all the way up (cranked to 11, probably) and the boys can feel the bass pulsing in time with the blood in their veins. Each sweet guitar riff makes their skin fucking tingle. The awesomely grating voice of the lead vocalist pushes at their eardrums with such force it feels as though they might burst. 

Within seconds Larry’s hair is flying through the air, the full length of it whooshing and flipping around his face like a much greasier version of a Pantene ad. Sal gives himself a moment to watch in awe at the technique, before succumbing to temptation and throwing his own head through the air. He matches the beat, whipping his pig-tails around as hard as he can, and maybe doing a few air-guitar poses when the mood strikes. He can feel himself grinning, the air rushing through the holes in his mask as he lets go and jams out as hard as he possibly can.

And that’s when he hears the rest of his mask unclip. 

There’s a distinctive sound of a metal buckle coming undone - the structural integrity of it compromised from Sal’s quest for  _ fucking Doritos _ . He forgot to redo the fucking clasp.

As if in slow motion, Sal watches horrified as his beloved prosthetic cartoonishly soars through the air. The pale white of the mask is a blur, it’s trajectory locked directly on Larry. Sal can’t get words out fast enough, if at all.

The mask collides with Larry’s nose, and Larry’s eyes spring open.

This is a nightmare - it must be. Sal is going to wake up any minute now, realize he took one too many Ambien and this is his punishment for it. This absolutely can not be happening right now. It can’t be.

But Sal can feel the hot, stale air of the apartment against his scarred skin, and the feeling is way too vivid for this not to be real. Wasn’t there music playing? He can’t even hear it anymore over the pounding of his own heart. Bright red is dripping across Larry’s cupids bow and upper lip, leaking from his nose. Larry grins at Sal, and then runs the back of his hand against his nostrils, smearing the blood across his skin. His lips move like he’s saying something, but it’s lost. He stares at Sal, waiting for a response, smile unwavering. His expression looking, for all the world, like nothing unusual has happened.

Sal’s mask is gone forever. Or at least, out of his reach (which is worlds away as far as Sal’s concerned) for the time being. His stomach roils, and he nearly throws up. It’s all he can do to throw his shaking palms over his face, turning away from Larry like a damn cowering puppy (Sal fucking hates dogs).

He’s going to have to move away after this, he knows it. 

There’s the burning feeling of tears leaking down the rough surface of his skin. It’s unbearably hot and it fucking stings and Sal can’t stop them. He can’t even fucking breathe. This is the end of everything. It’s the end of his life. Without Larry who does he have? The ghosts? God. He’s over. Finished. Kaput.

But God, he _ isn’t _ finished is he? He isn’t finished at all. The way Larry reacted. Jesus. Is this really happening? He’s starting to think his Ambien theory was correct.

Larry had smiled at him.

This can’t be real.

There’s a hand over his wrist, lanky fingers dwarfing the thin bone and pulling gently. Sal’s voice hitches. He doesn’t let his hands be removed. There’s a nasty combination of snot and tears mixing around his mouth.

Larry’s lips are so close they’re nearly touching his ear, repeating like a prayer, “Sal. Sal. Sal. Sal.”

And Sal manages to hear it. He nods so slightly he’s not even sure he actually moves. Larry exhales with palpable relief. It gives him chills.

“Sal. Sal, why are you crying? Sal. Sal. Sal. Why are you crying?” he repeats several times, the concern in his voice heavy like a stone in water. His hand stays on Sal’s wrist, the other grasping at Sal’s trembling shoulder.

“Larry-” It’s all Sal can get out, and it’s barely above a whisper. Larry doesn’t stop chanting Sal’s name like a damn mantra - begging him to tell him he’s alright, to explain what happened, to let him know if he’s  _ hurt _ .

Sal can feel the blood from Larry’s nose drip onto his exposed collarbone. It’s sticky and warm and nasty and it’s the most grounding thing in the world. 

Larry had smiled at him.

Slowly, painstakingly slowly, Sal moves his hands from in front of his face. Blood rushes against his eardrums like ocean waves. At some point the music must have actually stopped, because all he can hear is the static in his ears and Larry’s soft breathing. It’s excruciating. 

Sal moves his hands, exposing a face that no one but himself, his dad, and a trusted family doctor had seen in a decade. Exposing it, and all of his scars, real and emotional, to his best friend. It allows a vulnerability so crushing it might kill him on the spot.

But it doesn’t kill him on the spot.

Because Larry looks at him with nothing but worry and affection in his eyes. Nothing more. No hidden emotions or motives (there never is with Larry).

“You’re not looking away,” Sal breathes. Larry releases his wrist and moves his hand to cradle the side of Sal’s head.

“Is that why you’re crying?” Sal doesn’t answer and Larry shakes his head, exasperated. “You fucking asshole! You scared the shit out of me!”

The two are just staring at each other, their faces mere centimeters apart. It’s grossly intimate. 

Sal, a bit in awe and a bit dazed out from his bone rattling panic attack, pulls away from Larry quickly. He immediately feels the absence, and mourns the loss of Larry’s warm hands and quiet repetition of Sal’s name. Too bad, but the mask is a priority. 

After a moment of frantic searching, he finds the damn thing wedged into the folds of the bean bag chair. Stupid fucking chair. He pushes the prosthetic against his face, centering it on the place where a nose should be. One hand holds the cool material still, and the other winds around the back of his head, deftly buckling the two clasps with impressive speed. Across the room Larry is shifting his weight, definitely still worried. It makes Sal want to laugh in a weird this-isn’t-actually-funny sort of way. There’s still a stream of watery blood coming from Larry’s nose.

“Don’t you have a tissue or something, Larry Face?” Sal says, raising his newly covered face towards his friend. Larry shrugs.

“I could probably find some toilet paper to shove up there or something, Sally Face.”

“Or regular paper.”

“Yeah, we could even fold up one of my paint canvases and just stick it on in there. That would probably help.”

They both laugh, and then there’s a moment of silence before Sal manages to get his words out.

“Thank you, Larry.” It sounds disgustingly genuine, and it embarrasses Sal to say it. But fuck, he means it. He means it more than anything he’s ever said in his life.

“Don’t have to thank me, loser.” Larry shoves him lightly as he walks out into the hallway, in search of toilet paper. Sal’s heart skips a beat.

“Whatever, loser,” he says back, hands coming up to fiddle a bit with his mask.

He loves his best friend.

He really does.

**Author's Note:**

> hi!! thanks for reading. i wrote this for my girlfriend who really loves larry johnson. i hope it was in character lmao. i figure everyone must write this scene but i said "give me something to write" and this is what she suggested so blame her. leave me a comment if ya want! or a request. it makes me feel good about myself.


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